


The End of Breath

by Nanashi Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Breathplay, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-27
Updated: 2004-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Nanashi%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When I was out there that time," Trowa continues after a moment, "I started to run out of air." Quatre touches Trowa's face. "I didn't mind," Trowa says matter-of-factly. "It's like it was for you. Like giving up my breath to you. I wanted you to have it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of Breath

It's unusual for Quatre to wake first and he lies still in advantage, looking at Trowa. Looking at his face: hair cascaded to the side in sleep, lashes resting flush to his skin, curve of bone beneath. Quatre moves in the smallest bit, to study the unhidden, unguarded face. To see Trowa, maybe not open, but relaxed and easy in slumber, his features softened from the carefully blank rigor he masks himself in so consciously. 

Quatre closes his eyes for a moment, to feel Trowa's steady breath. When he opens them again, he lingers on the seam of Trowa's lips, the soft stretch of flesh where, almost parting, they cling to each other. He caresses the seam with his eyes; tongues the stretch, covers Trowa's lips with his own. Feels Trowa's mouth yield; feels a hitch of breath; then breath steadied, settled.

Trowa's mouth is open but Quatre doesn't go in. He breathes. Breathes Trowa's breath. Breathes Trowa into him, feels the soft rush of Trowa filling him, his lungs, entering his bloodstream, altering his pulse. He licks the breath from the soft moist flesh of Trowa's mouth, inside his upper lip, lower, Quatre's tongue curling beneath Trowa's, delving for hidden breath— 

Then Quatre draws back, mouth still covering Trowa's, drawing Trowa's breath, coaxing Trowa to him... and Trowa is going to his head now, rush through his lungs and heart and blood to his head... Trowa's breathing... and Quatre's (breathing) falling and... floating, and...

And he opens his eyes: and is met by Trowa's open-eyed, too-close gaze. 

Quatre moves back just enough to see clearly; Trowa turns his face, seeking the familiarity of his bangs and sanctuary behind them—but Quatre's fingers catch him. Hold him. Quatre holds him as he covers Trowa's mouth again; shifts, covering Trowa's body too now with his own. Opens his mouth to Trowa's, nudges, opens Trowa's to his, offers lips and tongue and kiss:

And Trowa responds with breath. Breathes into Quatre, until Quatre almost can't breathe anymore.

He finds breath again in the air between and around them, looks at Trowa and Trowa is looking back, not breathing. Holding his breath as Quatre holds his face. Trowa's gaze slides from Quatre's eyes to his mouth, and the tip of Quatre's tongue nudges itself out, flicks back inside. A susurrus breath escapes as Trowa's lips part in response—

And then Quatre's mouth is upon him again, and Quatre goes inside out as Trowa takes a deep breath, takes Quatre's; and Quatre lets him; then pulls back to let Trowa gather breath of his own again. And when he has, Quatre goes down again, licks Trowa's sigh. And Trowa lets out more of his breath, and Quatre breathes him and Trowa doesn't hold anything back, and Quatre pulls him in more, sucking and swallowing Trowa's breath, full and heavy and aching gloriously, floating and falling again... inhale and exhale, give and take, Trowa giving and giving and Quatre taking it all. And he wants to take Trowa, take all of him, wants to fill him too, aches to fill him, cock hard and heavy and pulsing with Trowa-infused blood. And Trowa is hard and pulsing against him too. 

Still kissing, Quatre arches up and reaches down and strokes his own cockhead, strokes Trowa's, gathering precome from both of them, fingertips wet and vibrating from Trowa's shiver and pulse. He reaches down more and presses his slicked fingertip into Trowa—gasp, sharp sweet rush of his breath sucked out of himself and into Trowa. Quatre inhales deeply, reclaims their mingled breath, demands and is given more of Trowa's breath. Gives Trowa more of his finger, and this time when Trowa inhales involuntarily, Quatre is ready for him, rides the rush in and takes it back, harder and deeper, so hard, so deep, he has to let go to find his own breath again—

Quatre raises up, breathes on his own again; falls into another kiss, reaches for the lube, feels around for it, and the stretch is starting to pull him away, when Trowa's hand finds him. Loss of Trowa's mouth, then breath against his skin: "no," Quatre almost feels more than hears it, "please."

He stops. Props himself up to look at Trowa, and Trowa's hands tighten on his hips. "I need this." Trowa meets Quatre's searching gaze with one of his own; drops his gaze in a blink that doesn't come open. "I need this," Trowa repeats quietly, holding on and coaxing Quatre down more. "I need you—your, I need your weight." The muscles of his throat work silently as he swallows. Quatre swallows too, holds back the words of reassurance that rise to his lips, words that, soft as they are, would overwhelm Trowa's shyer ones.

"When I was out there that time," Trowa continues after a moment, "I started to run out of air." Quatre clenches, keeps his cry inside, can't contain his shiver. Trowa relaxes his grip to soothe one hand along Quatre's spine. Quatre touches Trowa's face. "I didn't mind," Trowa says matter-of-factly. "It's like it was for you. Like giving up my breath to you. I wanted you to have it; you needed it more than me. It was for you," Trowa repeats, opening his eyes, "and I didn't mind." 

Quatre loses a heartbeat. Breath held, he meets Trowa's gaze. 

"It was the weightlessness I didn't like," Trowa finally goes on, his voice still calm, the tremor only in the fingers that curl around Quatre's hip as if holding on to his very bones. "I couldn't feel myself. It's like I was there but I wasn't. I guess it's always been like that, and I never cared." His hold eases; his pulse flutters in the fingertips still pressed to Quatre's skin. His gaze shifts off. "I didn't. I never thought I cared..." He glances back to Quatre. "I don't know. I don't know what I'm saying."

"I do," Quatre says. He touches his lips to Trowa's. "I'll take your breath, if you want me to have it. And I'll give you my weight." He shifts to rest full-length on Trowa. "This is yours." He shifts again, his knees sliding off to tuck against Trowa's side as Quatre pushes down, pulse to pulse, cock to cock, breath to vibration, and Quatre isn't sure which of them moaned as he feels both of them shiver. "Okay?" Quatre asks, and when Trowa nods acquiescence, Quatre kisses him, smiles and slides off.

He kisses Trowa again when he climbs back onto the bed, lube in hand: kisses his mouth, kisses his cock. Kneels between Trowa's legs, slicks himself up, slicks his fingers into Trowa; slides in his slickened cockhead. With Trowa's ankles resting on his shoulders, Quatre leans forward, lets weight and momentum slide him in, fully inside. 

Quatre doesn't move, and when Trowa starts to, Quatre stops him. "Just," he murmurs, pressing down. "Let me. Let yourself. Feel this. Okay?" 

Trowa nods, bites his lip, then his mouth opens in a soundless gasp. "Yes," he breathes, and Quatre kisses him, kisses his yes and his breath, and Trowa lets go, hands overhead on the pillow. And Quatre takes his surrender, surrenders in turn; and finally, finally, they start to move, together.


End file.
